Followers

Monday, January 1, 2007

As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, details of the room within emerged, strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold. It was all I could do to get out the words, “Yes, wonderful things.”

Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days because of the love he had for her. Then Jacob said to Laban, “Give me my wife.” But Laban brought his daughter Leah, and gave her to Jacob.

He removed my wedding veil without candle or lamp.He could not stop sighing, Rachel, Rachel,except to kiss, and not even then,breathing my sister’s name into my mouth.The first time fast and hungry, then he woketo caress everything, to tracethe bumps of my spine, the hollows of my knees.I tried to remember not to speak, but the “ahs”escaped. Finally, exhausted,he held me wrapped by both his arms and legs.And I waited in the dark, knowingthat no matter how many years we would spendliving as husband and wife,I would never be loved that way again.And I watched the tent wall slowly gofrom black to grey, my heartbeatcounting the minutes, until he would see my faceand scream.

First his letters, burned in the driveway.The ripped photos she threw in the kitchen garbage,followed by wilted salad, blobs of cheese.The books, with their inscriptions (“love always”)went to Secondhand Words, clothes to Good Will,even the gold silk blouse, even the teddy.Items fell from her like so much ballast.Her hair was brushing the lintels of doorways.Only the weight of her shoes held her feet to the floor.She dug the rosebush (innocent live thing),dumped the tangle of root and thorn at the curb.Even (who would have thought) the salad tongs.As the gold chain slipped from her neck,the last strand of tether snapped.It flew, 22 karat airborne brilliance.It plopped into the lake in sinuous ripples.And she floated into the crowns of trees,surrounded by wobbling green leaves.Startled birds exploded off the wire,a shimmer of feathers around her head.

At fourteen months, she doesn’t need the milk.So why continue? It’s no longer aboutnutrition, immunity, bonding,or comfort at bedtime. It’s just this:once the milk is gone, it’s gone.There will never be another child to feed.The doctor saw to that.For every beautiful thing that is gone forever,for every kiss that will never be kissed,for passenger pigeons, Tasmanian tigers,for paintings and poems burned in the purge,for hope winked out in any kind of prison,for every soldier dead in every war,Come, I lift my shirt.

He is old, scrawny, his back hunchedfrom study, his fingers gnarled.What harm can this man do,busy at his pen-scratching?But see? The old man’s ink-stained handsstroke the muscular back of a full-grown lion.The paws, big as plates, and heavy,flex their claws. The jaws rumble.Wherever the old man shuffles, the lion follows.They are inseparable, best of friends,the dry, cerebral scribe, and the hunterwho will crack your biggest bones with a snap,whose favorite flavor is blood, who lovesthe raw chewy muscle. The writer bends nowover a text extolling the mercy of God.The lion rubs against his leg and yawns,showing, then sheathing, the always-ready teeth.

You and I, wild, flying home,our two long-necked shadowsrippling over the valley floor.It is good, mounting the cool air,your wing beside my wing,but I am tired, and home is far.Where is the shine of silver water?Where are the rushes to shelter our sleeping,shoulder to shoulder, and neck to neck?Your sleek head, your feathered backare my home. Below us,the man raises the gun and aims.